Birth of the Kingdom Read online

  Eskil and Arn went out through the gate and down to the tent encampment, which was being made ready by all the foreigners in Arn’s retinue. Arn explained that they needed only to greet the freemen, and not his thralls. First he asked Harald Øysteinsson to step forward and told Eskil that the two of them had been comrades in arms for almost fifteen years. When Eskil heard the Norwegian name he frowned as if searching his memory for something. Then he asked whether Harald might possibly have a relative in Norway with the same name. When Harald confirmed this and said that the man was his grandfather, and that his father was named Øystein Møyla, Eskil nodded pensively. He hastened to invite Harald to the feast that evening in the longhouse, and he also pointed out that there would be no lack of Nordic ale in sufficient quantities; something he probably thought would cheer a kinsman who had come such a long way. Harald’s face lit up and he uttered words so warm, almost like blessings, that Eskil was soon distracted from the subject of his forefathers.

  Next they greeted the old monk Brother Guilbert, whose fringe of hair was completely white and whose shiny pate showed that he no longer needed to bother with shaving his tonsure. Arn briefly recounted how while they were in Varnhem Father Guillaume had granted Brother Guilbert a leave of absence as long as he worked for Arnäs. When he shook hands with the monk, Eskil was surprised to feel a rough grip, like a smith’s and with a smith’s strength.

  There were no other men in Arn’s entourage who spoke Norse, and Eskil had a hard time understanding the foreign names that Arn rattled off as they stood before men who bowed politely. To Eskil’s ears the language sometimes sounded like Frankish and sometimes like some utterly different tongue.

  Arn especially wanted to introduce two brothers who were dark-skinned, but both wore a gold cross around their necks. Their names were Marcus and Jacob Wachtian, Arn explained, and he added that they would be of great use in building anything large or small as well as in conducting business.

  The thought of good tradesmen cheered up Eskil, but otherwise he had begun to feel uncomfortable among these foreigners, whose language he could not understand but whose expressions he suspected he could read all too well. He imagined that they were saying things that were not very respectful about his mighty paunch.

  Arn also seemed to notice Eskil’s embarrassment, so he dismissed all the men around them and led his brother back toward the fortress courtyard. After they passed through the gate he suddenly turned serious and asked his brother to meet with him alone in the tower’s accounting chamber for a talk that was to be for their ears only. But first he had a simple matter to take care of, something that would be awkward if he forgot about it before the banquet. Eskil nodded, looking a bit puzzled, and headed for the tower.

  Arn strode towards the big brick cookhouses that still stood where as a boy he had helped to build them; with pleasure he noted that they had been repaired and fortified in places and showed no sign of decay.

  Inside he found, as expected, Erika Joarsdotter wearing a long leather apron over a simple brown linen shift. Like a cavalry officer she was fully occupied in commanding female house thralls and servants. When she noticed Arn she quickly set down a large pot of steaming root vegetables and threw her arms around his neck for the second time. This time he let it happen without feeling embarrassed, since there were only women inside.

  ‘Do you know, my dearest Arn,’ said Erika in her somewhat difficult to understand speech that came through her nose as much as through her mouth and which Arn had not heard in years, ‘that when you first came here I thanked Our Lady for sending an angel to Arnäs. And here you are once again, in a white mantle and surcoat emblazoned with the sign of Our Lord. You are in truth like a warrior angel of God!’

  ‘What a human being sees and what God sees is not always one and the same,’ Arn muttered self-consciously. ‘We have much to talk about, you and I, and we shall, be sure of that. But right now my brother awaits, and I want only to ask you a small favour for this evening.’

  Erika threw out her arms in delight and said something about a favour on any evening, speaking in a suggestive manner that Arn did not fully understand. But the other women broke out in ill-concealed giggles in the midst of the bustle of the cookhouse. Arn pretended not to notice, even though he only half perceived the joke. He quickly hastened to request that the smaller feast served out by the tents contain lamb, veal, and venison, but no meat from swine – either wild or the fatter, tame variety. Since his wishes at first seemed difficult to understand, he hurried to add that in the Holy Land, where the guests came from, there was no pork, and that everyone would much prefer lamb. He also asked that besides ale, they also serve plenty of fresh water with the meal.

  It was clear that Erika found this request odd. She stood deep in thought for a moment, her cheeks flushed from the cookhouse heat and breathless from all the rushing about, making her bosom heave. But then she promised to take care of everything just as Arn had asked, and hurried off to arrange for more slaughtering and more spit-turners.

  Arn hurried to the tower. The lower port was now being watched by two guards who stared as if petrified at his white mantle and surcoat as he approached. But this expression, which many men assumed upon seeing a Templar knight coming towards them, was something that Arn had years ago learned to ignore.

  He found his rather impatient brother up in the accounting chamber. Without explanation Arn unhooked his white mantle, pulled off his surcoat, and folded both garments carefully in the manner prescribed by the Holy Rule. He placed them carefully on a stool, sat down, and motioned for Eskil also to take a seat.

  ‘You have become a man who is used to being in command,’ Eskil muttered with a mixture of levity and petulance.

  ‘Yes, I have been a commander in war for many years, and it takes time to become accustomed to peace,’ replied Arn, crossing himself. He seemed to murmur a brief prayer to himself before he went on. ‘You are my beloved older brother. I am your beloved younger brother. Our friendship was never broken, and the longing of both of us has been great. I have not come home to command; I have come home to serve.’

  ‘You still sound like a Dane when you speak, or rather a man of the Danish church, perhaps. I don’t think we should overstate the part about service, because you are my brother,’ Eskil jested, making an exaggerated gesture of welcome across the table.

  ‘Now the time has come that I feared most when I longed so for my homecoming,’ Arn continued with unabated gravity, as if to show that he had no interest in the levity that had been offered.

  Eskil collected himself at once.

  ‘I know that our childhood friend Knut is now king,’ Arn went on. ‘I know that our father’s brother Birger Brosa is jarl, I know that for many years there has been peace in the realm. So now to everything I do not know…’

  ‘You already know the most important things, but how did you obtain this knowledge on your long journey?’ Eskil interrupted his brother, seemingly out of genuine curiosity.

  ‘I come from Varnhem,’ Arn resolutely continued. ‘We first intended to sail all the way to the wharves outside Arnäs, but we could not make our way past the Troll’s Rapids, since our ship was too big.’

  ‘So it was your ship with the cross on the sail!’

  ‘Yes, a Templar ship that can carry a large cargo. It will surely be of great use. But let’s speak of that later. We were forced to take the land route from Lödöse, and I found it wise to stop at Varnhem. It was there that I obtained the information, along with my friend Brother Guilbert and the horses you saw out in the pasture. Now to my question. Is Cecilia Algotsdotter still alive?’

  Eskil stared in astonishment at his younger brother, who seemed to be suffering as he waited for the answer. Arn gripped the tabletop hard with his scarred hands as if preparing himself for the blow of a whip. When Eskil recovered from his surprise at this unexpected question, which came at a time when there were so many important things to discuss, he at first broke out in laughter. But
Arn’s burning gaze made him quickly cover his mouth with his hand, clear his throat, and turn serious again.

  ‘The first thing you ask about is Cecilia Algotsdotter?’

  ‘I have other questions that are equally important to me, but first this one.’

  ‘Ah well,’ sighed Eskil, hesitating with his reply and smiling in a way that made Arn think of his childhood memories of Birger Brosa. ‘Ah well, yes, Cecilia Algotsdotter is alive.’

  ‘Is she unmarried, has she taken vows at a convent?’

  ‘She is unmarried and is the yconoma at Riseberga convent; she does the bookkeeping.’

  ‘So she has not taken vows, yet she manages the convent’s affairs. Where is this Riseberga?’

  ‘Three days’ journey from here, but you should not ride there,’ Eskil teased him.

  ‘Why not? Are there enemies there?’

  ‘No, by no means. But Queen Blanca has been there for some time and she is now on her way to Näs, which is the king’s fortress…’

  ‘Remember, I’ve been there!’

  ‘Ah yes, that’s true. When Knut killed Karl Sverkersson; it’s such things one should not forget, although it would be preferable to do so. But now Queen Blanca is on her way to Näs, and I’m sure that Cecilia is with her. Those two are as hard to separate as clay and straw. No, calm yourself, and don’t stare at me like that!’

  ‘I am calm! Completely calm.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. So listen calmly to this. In two days’ time I’m going to ride to the council meeting at Näs to meet with the king, the jarl, and a bunch of bishops. I think that everyone at Näs would probably be pleased if you came with me.’

  Arn had fallen to his knees and clasped his hands in prayer. Eskil found no reason to interrupt him, even though he felt ill at ease with this continuous kneeling. Instead he stood up thoughtfully as if testing an idea. Then he nodded to himself and quietly sneaked out to the stairs leading down to the armoury. What he intended to fetch he might as well do now rather than later; he had already made up his mind.

  When he came huffing back upstairs, without disturbing Arn, he sat down again to wait until he thought the rambling prayer had gone on long enough. Then he cleared his throat.

  Arn stood up at once with a glint of joy in his eyes that seemed to Eskil too childish for words. He also thought that Arn’s sheepish expression was inconsistent with a man clad in expensive chain mail from his head down to his steel-reinforced shoes with spurs of gold.

  ‘Look here!’ said Eskil, shoving a surcoat over to Arn. ‘If you must wear warrior clothes, you should probably be honouring these colours from now on.’

  Arn unfolded the surcoat without a word and briefly regarded the Folkung lion rampant above three streams. He nodded as if to confirm something to himself before he swiftly donned the garment. Eskil stood up with a blue mantle in his hands and walked around the table. He gave Arn a brief and solemn look before he draped the Folkung mantle over his brother’s shoulders.

  ‘Welcome for a second time. Not only to Arnäs but also to our colours,’ he said.

  When Eskil now attempted to embrace his brother, whom he had so readily readmitted to the family and to the right of inheritance, Arn once again sank to his knees in prayer. Eskil sighed but saw how Arn with a practiced gesture swept aside the mantle on the left side so that his sword would not get tangled in it. It was as if he were ready at any moment to rise up with his sword drawn.

  This time Arn did not remain lost in prayer for long. When he stood up it was he who embraced Eskil.

  ‘I remember the law about pilgrims and penitents, and I understand what you have done. I swear the oath of a Templar knight that I shall always honour these colours,’ said Arn.

  ‘For my part you may gladly take your oath as a Folkung, and always as a Folkung,’ replied Eskil.

  ‘And now I can undoubtedly do so!’ laughed Arn, opening the Folkung mantle wide with both arms as if imitating a bird of prey. Both of them laughed at this.

  ‘And now it must be high time, by the Devil, for the first ale in too many years between brothers in blue!’ shouted Eskil, but rued it at once when he saw how Arn flinched at his blasphemous language. In order to cover his embarrassment, he stood up and went over to an arrow loop in the embrasure facing the courtyard and bellowed something that Arn did not grasp, but he assumed it had something to do with ale.

  ‘Now to my next question. Pardon my selfishness when something else may be of more importance for both our country and Arnäs, yet this is my next query,’ said Arn. ‘When I set off on my penitential journey, Cecilia Algotsdotter was expecting my child…’

  It was as though Arn did not dare complete the question. Eskil, who knew that he had one more piece of good news to relate, delayed his answer and said that he was much too parched in the throat to speak of this until he had some ale. Then he got up impatiently and again went over to the arrow loop and roared something that Arn now definitely knew had to do with ale. He need not have done this. Already bare feet were heard hurrying up the spiral tower staircase. Soon two large foaming wooden tankards were set before the brothers, and the thrall girl who brought them vanished like a ghost.

  The brothers raised their tankards to each other. Eskil drank much longer and more manfully than Arn, which was no surprise to either of them.

  ‘Now I shall tell you how it stands with regard to this matter,’ said Eskil and moved closer to the table, drawing up one knee and resting the ale tankard on it. ‘Well, it was about your son, I believe—’

  ‘My son!’ Arn shouted.

  ‘Yes. Your son. His name is Magnus. He grew up with his grandfather’s brother Birger Brosa. He did not take your name, nor did he take the name Birgersson. He calls himself Magnus Månesköld and bears a moon on his shield next to our lion. He is a hereditary member at the ting and thereby a genuine Folkung. He knows that he is your son, and he has practiced to become the mightiest archer in all of Eastern Götaland since he heard of your attested skills. What else do you want to know about him?’

  ‘How can he know anything about my archery? Does he also know who his mother is?’ asked Arn, as troubled as he was excited.

  ‘Songs have been sung about you, dear brother, and sagas have been told. Some originated from the ting of all Goths, that time you won the duel against…what was his name?’

  ‘Emund Ulvbane.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. And the monks probably told him of one thing and another, such as the time you led twenty thousand Templar knights to a glorious victory at the Mountain of Pigs, where a hundred thousand infidels fell to your swords, not to mention—’

  ‘The Mountain of Pigs? In the Holy Land?’

  Arn broke into a fit of laughter that he could not stop. He repeated to himself the words ‘Mountain of Pigs’ and then laughed even more, as he raised his ale tankard to Eskil, and tried to drink like a man, but he immediately began to cough. When he wiped his mouth a thought occurred to him and his face lit up.

  ‘Mont Gisard,’ he said. ‘The battle was at Mont Gisard and there were four hundred Templar knights against five thousand Saracens.’

  ‘Well, that wasn’t so bad either,’ Eskil said with a smile. ‘It was true then, and it’s no surprise that the truth takes on a bit more luster in songs and sagas. But where were we? Oh yes, Magnus knows from the sagas who you are, and that’s why he keeps practicing with the bow. That’s one thing. The other is that he knows his mother Cecilia, and they get along well.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘At Bjälbo with Birger Brosa. He was raised by Birger and Brigida. Oh, that’s right, you don’t know Brigida. She’s King Harald Gille’s daughter and still talks like a Norwegian, the way you talk like a Dane. Well, for many years Magnus lived at Bjälbo as their son, and he believed nothing different. Now he is reckoned as a foster brother to Birger, and that’s why he bears that moon on his shield instead of Birger’s lily. What more would you like to know?’

  ‘I sen
se that you think I ought to have begun asking questions at the other end. But I hope you’ll forgive me. First I saw you, then our father Magnus, and I had no need to ask about what was both closest and most obvious. But during all the wars I prayed before every battle for Cecilia and the child I did not know. During the long journey across the seas there was almost nothing else to think about. Now tell me about you and yours, and about Father and Erika Joarsdotter.’

  ‘Well spoken, my dear brother,’ said Eskil, smacking his lips in jest as he took his mouth from his tankard as if it held the sweetest wine. ‘You choose your words well, and perhaps you will find use for that gift when you have to wheedle the bunch of bishops in the king’s council. But keep in mind that I am your brother and that we always stood close to each other, and God grant that we may remain so. With me you need never wheedle, but speak as only you can to the one who is your brother!’

  Arn raised his tankard in assent.

  Eskil then gave a brief account, explaining that so much still remained to be said after so many years that if they did it properly it would take all night. But after the evening’s banquet was over they would not be so pressed for time.

  Eskil related that he had only one son, Torgils, who was seventeen years old and now rode as a young apprentice in the king’s guards. He also had two daughters, Beata and Sigrid, who both had married well in Svealand into Queen Blanca’s family but had not yet borne any sons. Eskil himself had no reason to complain. God had stood by him. He sat on the king’s council and was responsible for all trade abroad. He could speak the language of Lübeck, and he had sailed there twice to conclude agreements with Henrik the Lion of Saxony. From the land of the Swedes and Goths they sailed with iron, wool, hides, and butter, but above all with dried fish that was caught and prepared in Norway. From Lübeck the ship took on cargo of steel, spices, and fabrics, as well as spun thread of gold and silver, and silver coins which were payment for the dried fish. It was no small treasure that was imported into the country through this trade, and Eskil’s share was significant, since he was the sole trader of this dried fish between Norway, both Eastern and Western Götaland, Svealand, and Lübeck. Now Arnäs was surely more than twice as rich as when Arn had left.